


Samson

by ShowMeAHero



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel, Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Amnesia, Angst, Domestic, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship/Love, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Memories, Memory Loss, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Repressed Memories
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-06
Updated: 2014-05-06
Packaged: 2018-01-23 18:00:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1574573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShowMeAHero/pseuds/ShowMeAHero
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"And the history books forgot about us, and the Bible didn't mention us, not even once."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Samson

**Author's Note:**

> A study of Bucky and Steve when Bucky finally returns to him. Mostly silent. Based on the song "Samson" by Regina Spektor.

The July heat lent itself to humid nights with casual, lingering breezes. Steve had thrown open the window before he went to bed, and it was because the window was open that a body hurtled through it around three that morning. The body landed on the hardwood floor, rolling and bumping into the bed. It stopped there, curled up against the side of the four-poster, and Steve jerked awake with the thumps. He reached under his pillow and grabbed the Beretta M9 he kept there, and the pistol was in front of him in seconds. Upon seeing no immediate threat, Steve began to climb out of bed, and it was then that he found the body. He recognized it instantly.

“Bucky,” Steve said, softly, in respect to the darkness. He tucked the gun into the waistband of his pajama pants and fell to his knees, rolling Bucky onto his back and feeling for his pulse. He sighed when he found one, and immediately began searching for the cause of his unconsciousness. When he reached to pull Bucky’s Kevlar aside, a solid hand wrapped around his throat. He barely registered the whirs of the gears in Bucky’s advanced prosthetic arm.

“Bucky,” Steve repeated, choked now, grabbing at Bucky’s hand, trying to pry his fingers off. “Bucky, Bucky-”

“Steve,” Bucky said, and he was not, for a moment, the Winter Soldier. Steve saw, in his eyes, the Bucky he had known. This Bucky, the one who kept cropping up, despite his training, looked desperate in a way Steve wished he had never had to see. Steve coughed roughly, and Bucky’s metallic arm whirred again as he released him.

Steve dropped to his hands and knees on the floor, his palms flat against the cold wood. He heaved, pressing the heel of one hand against his chest as he forced air back into his lungs. Bucky scrambled up onto his feet, and Steve rose up onto his knees.

“Bucky,” Steve repeated, and Bucky fell to his knees in front of him, reaching out with both hands, one metal and one flesh. He took Steve’s face in his and stared hard at him, as though trying to read words into his expression, or find long-lost memories somewhere in his countenance. Steve leaned forward of his own accord, pressed their foreheads together. Bucky motioned absently with his hands, but Steve just grabbed his wrists, trapping their arms between them.

Steve helped Bucky to his feet, the two of them silent save for the creak of floorboards under them as Steve led Bucky to the bathroom. In the darkness, Steve was more visible, his blonde hair and bare, bright white skin stark against the black of night. Bucky was more at home in the darkness, his dirty, tanned skin and tangles of dark hair serving as camouflage where his flashing blue eyes betrayed him. Steve sat him down on the edge of the bathtub and turned on the harsh, yellow bathroom light.

Bucky leaned back when Steve turned the shower head on, tugging it down so he could wash the years of grime, dust, and blood from Bucky’s skin. He scrubbed vigorously at him until he could see pale freckles across his nose that had only ever been visible in the summer sunlight when they were children, and then continued to scrub, trying to force the bad memories down the drain. Bucky reached up, his metal hand cold when it wrapped around Steve’s wrist, and Steve paused, just long enough to reach around Bucky and start to clean his hair. His shampoo smelled like freezing winter nights without enough blankets, like a head colliding with a brick wall, like the cheap drugstore shampoo that they used to buy from down the street, and Bucky drowned in the memories while Steve washed him as best as he could, the both of them still clothed at four in the morning.

Steve shut off the scalding water, and Bucky pressed his hot metal palm to Steve’s forearm, where his sleeve was rolled up, and marveled at the red skin he created. Steve cradled Bucky’s skull in his hand for a moment before he left the bathroom. Though he was only gone for a moment, Bucky nearly climbed out the window, only stopping when Steve returned with a pair of dull scissors. He led Bucky - hair dripping, metal arm cooling every second - to the closed toilet seat, and sat him down.

“Bucky-” Steve began, but Bucky shook his head, bowing it over his folded hands. Steve stopped, and took Bucky’s hair in his hands, cutting off small pieces at first, then large chunks, the linoleum getting covered in wet brown hair. Bucky watched as it fell, watched it hit the ground and spiral out in watery patterns. Steve made quick work of his hair, then stood him up, pointing him towards a mirror. Bucky hardly recognized the man in the mirror, but that was nothing new.

Steve led him back into the bedroom, leaving the bathroom a mess behind them. Bucky could hear a lilting piano melody coming from one of the open windows of an apartment near Steve’s, and could almost reach a memory of himself shouting out an apartment window, shouting for someone to keep quiet, he had someone trying to sleep, someone ill, who he needed to protect, but the memory slipped away from him, and he was left with the faint piano melody and Steve’s worried expression. Steve flicked off the bathroom light, snapped on the bedside lamp, and helped Bucky sit down on the edge of the bed. He rummaged in his drawers for a pair of sweatpants, then left him there, shutting the door firmly behind him.

Bucky could not remember changing his clothes, ever. He supposes he must have, but the memories had simply slipped away from him. He tugged the black material off, rough bulletproof stuff that had been standard in his last years. He left it all in a soon-forgotten heap of darkness in the corner, and jerked on the borrowed sweatpants, unable to shake the feeling of unease that they actually somewhat fit him. He looked around the room, searching for _something_ , though he was unsure what, and found his own face on the bedside table. He moved to examine the picture, lifting the frame and peering into the face of the men they used to be.

Steve returned then, knocking lightly on the door before he pushed it open. He had a plate with two pieces of buttered white bread of them in one hand, and a glass of milk in the other, and Bucky sat down heavily on the edge of the bed again, his knees knocking against the nightstand. He looked at the yellowed photograph. Steve barely glanced at the scarring where the metal prosthetic met skin. He set the glass and plate down on the table and sat beside Bucky, throwing one arm around his shoulder and leaning into him. Bucky leaned back, and their temples connected.

“Bucky-” Steve began again, but Bucky just shook his head this time, and Steve fell silent. He slipped the photograph out of Bucky’s hand and set it back on the nightstand. He maneuvered Steve backwards until he was propped up against the headboard, and he tucked his legs under the covers like a child before he handed him the plate and the glass. Bucky wordlessly handed one of the slices of bread to Steve, and Steve took it without argument. Bucky offered half of the glass of milk to Steve, and Steve drank it without a sound. He took the empty glass and cleared plate from Bucky and put them on the floor beside the bed, leaning over Bucky to reach.

Bucky did as Steve had done, snapping the bedside lamp off. He forced himself further under the thin blankets, relying on muscle memory, and a casual, lingering breeze drifted through the open window. Steve turned into him, running on instinct, something familiar and automatic in the way he wrapped around Bucky. Bucky put his chilled metal arm around Steve and shut his eyes, letting himself remember and settle into not something he was back then, not something he was just now, but something new, a Frankenstein’s monster of his two selves. Steve could not have cared less, safe with him as he was. It was more than either of them had had in all their years.

 

**Author's Note:**

> You can follow me on Twitter at [@nicoIodeon](https://twitter.com/nicoIodeon) or on Tumblr at [andillwriteyouatragedy](http://andillwriteyouatragedy.tumblr.com/).


End file.
